Maurice Debran had not proved to be a reliable courier. After he left Moscow, he stopped in Copenhagen to meet his mistress, Inga Holdens. They stayed at the Royale Hotel across from the Tivoli Gardens, and Debran forgot about the package Rudenko had given him. He walked the streets of the Danish capital with his friend and shopped for presents for his wife and children back in Paris. On Tuesday, September 10, Debran and Inga made love for the last time, and he went out to Kastrup Airport and caught the direct flight to Paris.
When he got home, Debran was seized with guilt and spent two days being attentive to his family. On Friday, at noon, Paris time, he went to the Café St. Laurent, ordered a Campari, and waited for the daily appearance of Michael Macomber, resident American CIA agent in the city. Under cover of being an author, Macomber coordinated all activities of his agency in France and the Low Countries.
Debran saw him instantly and signaled Macomber to join him. Attired in a velvet jacket and bell-bottomed slacks, the American threaded his way through the noontime crowd and put out his hand to the Frenchman. Macomber knew that Debran sometimes engaged in clandestine activities for the United States while carrying on his normal duties as a diplomatic courier for his own country. It gave Debran extra money to finance his personal clandestine activities.
The two men talked animatedly for a while, the American patiently waiting for Debran to come to the point of his visit to the café.
“Grigor Rudenko gave me something for you.”
Macomber was startled. He had not seen Rudenko for years, not since he had been in Moscow as part of the embassy staff. Macomber had briefly acted as Rudenko’s channel to Richter in Washington, but soon having to assume other responsibilities, he had lost touch with the Russian. When Debran mentioned Rudenko’s name, Macomber instantly wondered whether the Frenchman was baiting some sort of trap. He wondered whether Debran had now added the Communists to his list of employers. It would not have surprised him.
Debran was not subtle. “Rudenko says these are very important to your country and you should pass them on to Washington.”
Macomber did not acknowledge that he even knew Rudenko. “What’s in the package?”
“I don’t know, but here it is.”
Debran held it for a moment in front of Macomber’s face.
“My expenses in this case have been quite high, Macomber.”
The American sighed and asked, “How much, Maurice?”
“Five thousand American dollars.”
“You’re not serious!”
“Oh, but I am! The way Grigor was acting, it’s worth all of that to your people.”
Macomber looked at the envelope and Debran’s mocking smile.
“Why don’t we go for a walk, Maurice, and talk this out?”
“By all means, let’s do that.”
Debran swallowed his Campari, and the men went out into the late summer brightness of the Left Bank.
Macomber took him to his home in the 16th Arrondissement. In the living room of the third-floor suite, the American poured Chateauneuf du Pape into glasses and handed one to Debran. “To your continued health, Maurice.”
Debran drank slowly, eyeing the CIA man, who smiled over his drink.
“Now may I see this very important letter of yours?” Macomber asked. “I can’t tell how much it’s worth until I read it.”
Debran sipped thoughtfully, then handed over Rudenko’s message. When Macomber tore it open, a cascade of blueprints and memoranda fell out onto the coffee table.
The American sat down to examine his treasure. Macomber was no physicist, but he was reasonably fluent in nontechnical Russian. The blueprints were incomprehensible to him and the notes on them almost as impossible.
The memos were a different story. One from Andrei Parchuk told of the initial Soviet test firing and described the extent of the damage inflicted on the Siberian target.
Another from Parchuk told of the Presidium meeting where Moskanko had told him he would destroy the Israeli atomic center and later use the weapon on the United States.
Macomber tried to hide his own feelings from Debran as he read these stunning words. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest, and he wanted to get rid of the Frenchman before he betrayed his excitement.
Macomber got up and went to a desk, where he pulled out a cigarette box and reached inside.
“You said five thousand, Maurice.”
“Correct.”
“It’s worth three to me.”
Macomber waved a packet of money at Debran, who tried to fathom the American’s concealed reaction to the contents of the envelope.
“Three, Maurice, and keep up the good work. Perhaps next time we can do even better by you.”
Maurice Debran hesitated, thought of his financial burdens, and accepted the proffered payment. Macomber saw him to the door and asked: “Does Grigor Rudenko use you often in his work?”
Debran shrugged: “Once in a while, but never have I seen him so insistent on my getting this to the proper channels. He seemed very disturbed, very upset.”
Macomber nodded and said good-bye.
When he was sure Debran was in the elevator, Macomber called his assistant, Jim Perkins, out of the next room and pointed to the documents. “Jim, unless these are fakes, we’ve just uncovered the worst mess since Pearl Harbor.”
Michael Macomber left Orly Airport one hour and forty minutes later, bound for Washington. In his briefcase he carried Grigor Rudenko’s bombshell. In Langley, Virginia, it was 10 A.M. when Sam Riordan hung up from talking to Jim Perkins, who told the director why Macomber had left in such haste. The elated Riordan immediately dialed the White House. He was anxious to tell Bill Stark his first good news in days.
But William Stark was not there. The President had gone to a wake. The vault was cool and dark except for a tiny light burning in the ceiling. Stark sat alone beside the flag-draped coffin. Outside, in Arlington National Cemetery, Secret Service men and the Bagman waited while the President of the United States paid his last respects to a fallen comrade, Clifford Erskine. Because of the evacuation now beginning, last rites for the Secretary of Defense had been delayed and the President had flown by helicopter across the river to be with his friend for a final brief moment.
Stark sat beside the man who had quit on him the day before and thought of the many happy times they had shared together in Washington. He had enjoyed Erskine’s dry humor and intellect immensely. The two had frequently played golf or ridden down the Potomac on the White House yacht, discussing affairs of state or talking about subjects they found mutually stimulating. It was Erskine who had introduced Stark to the Federalist papers written by Madison, Hamilton, and John Jay. It was Erskine who had sharpened Stark’s ability at chess. They had shared many hours of contemplative relaxation, and William Stark had found them to be among the most pleasant aspects of his Presidency. Erskine had become like a brother to him. Their views of people and the world had been surprisingly alike, and Stark found it difficult to believe that the first man to defect from his cabinet had been Clifford Erskine. Now his friend was dead, and Stark blamed himself.
The President reached out to touch the flag, mumbling, “Forgive me, Cliff.” His eyes were moist, and he caught himself on the verge of a sob. His chair rasped on the cement floor as he stood. Hastily, he brushed his hand across his eyes to erase the tears and stepped out into the blinding light. The Secret Service men trailed him down the path past thousands of white markers from other wars and other crises. Stark began counting them absently and reading the dates. He thought, “Maybe next time nobody will be left to bury the dead.” The President stopped reading the stones and hurried back to the White House.